“Not your job,” I say. People snicker.
“Ugh,” he replies. “As I was saying—”
“Nope,” I say. The girls giggle.
Gordy looks agitated. “Jack? A little help, here?”
“Let him finish,” Dad says.
“Of course. Marching orders, sir!” I say to Gordy.
“As your captain, I took the liberty of making us a team cheer.”
“Oh, dear God,” I mutter.
“At the end of every huddle, instead of saying, ‘One-two-three-break!’ we’ll say, ‘Scream and shout and catch your breath for Gordy, Jack, and Kiss of Death!’”
“No,” I say.
“Not bad, son,” Dad says. “Let’s put a pin in that for now. Save it for the playoffs, yeah?”
“We can try it now, before we go,” Gordy suggests.
Dom laughs. “Hard pass,” he says.
“Good practice, guys. First game Sunday is at twelve sharp. Don’t be late!” Dad commands. “And Colin—bring your A-game. No slacking off with those easy swings!”
“Dad—it’ssoftball.”
“No reason foryouto be soft though, right, kid?”
Dad started this team once retirement began looming about three years ago. I used to hit hard then, until a straight shot to third base during practice hit Daisy in the face and broke her nose.
“Got that right. It’s not arealgame till somebody ends up in the hospital,” I mumble. Daisy pats me on the shoulder.
Understanding that our little team meeting has ended, Dom and I turn back towards the bench to grab our stuff. “One, two, three!” Gordy shouts. “Scream and shout and catch your breath!”
My dad pats him on the back. “Not today, son.”
Gordy stops, shoulders slumped.
Daisy gives me half the leftover granola bars to take home, and I call myself an Uber. When I arrive home twenty minutes later, I grab a shower and throw a frozen pizza in the oven. I dry off, change into shorts and a T-shirt, and park myself on the couch with my dinner and a bottle of lemon seltzer.
I flip on the television and check my phone. I’ve got emails from Dick’s Sporting Goods, Bed Bath & Beyond Registry (kill me), a panicked client who just got a life insurance policy and wants to make sure the proceeds end up in her will (Sidebar: Howdaftis she? The policy lists abeneficiary—it doesn’t also need to go in her will!), and a 15 percent off coupon to Besos Burritos, which I fully intend to use, just not tonight.
I binge-watch a miniseries on Netflix about the Heaven’s Gate cult, and it’s almost 11:00 when my eyes begin to close. Almost an hour later, I’m sound asleep on the couch when I hear aDing!I rub my eyes and check my phone.
It’s Grace.
Gracie
There should be a warning label on pizza boxes. Like how theSurgeon General warning lets smokers know their choices are akin to suicide—the same thing should be right on the top of each pizza delivery order.
This is what I’m thinking when I wake up just before midnight, the screen of my laptop a black abyss, my head resting on an actual plate, bits of sauce and crumbs of crust dotting my face like recently popped pimples.
How is this possible?
There was no alcohol. No Thanksgiving-menu tryptophan in my meal. It was just me, my sausage and pepperoni pizza, and Netflix, enjoying a late lunch that lasted from roughly 4:00 until about 5:30, until, as it seems, I fell asleep.
